Declaration
by Strawberry Shortcake123
Summary: He doesn't know if she heard him say those three words, and it tears him up inside. Oneshot. Tiva. Sequel to Desperation. Character death.


At first, he drinks.

That's all he knows to do. It's reminiscent of the summer he thought she had gone down with the _Damocles_; the same hopelessness fills him, the same loneliness. He is unsure how to proceed with his life, and he drowns himself in alcohol so there are large portions of it he cannot even remember.

But during his waking, sober hours, the painful truth is omnipresent, and as similar as it is to the first time he lost her, there is also something different. The two of them had clung to each other in that elevator, and she had been fighting consciousness when he said it. He finally said it, those three words that resounded in his mind every day- and then she passed out.

That was it.

He would be better off now, he thinks, if he hadn't made that confession. It tears him up inside. Did she hear him? Did she love him back?

Sometimes Tony wonders this aloud.

Ziva doesn't answer him.

It's the silence that leads him to reach for another beer.

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Eventually, he reengages himself with his work, and he even goes out once in a while. The drinking subsides, but there are still moments of weakness. There are also instances in which he abruptly leaves his desk, because he can't stand to stare across the aisle at hers anymore.

It's been about two years when he meets someone. Her name is Ashley, and she is an ambitious career woman. She makes him laugh; he has quick surges of happiness when he's with her. He thinks there's a chance he can let her in.

This idea diminishes quickly the first time he brings her home with him. They step inside, and he literally freezes. Ashley runs into him from behind and asks if he is okay; he grunts.

Something suddenly feels very, very wrong about having her here.

He stutters and stammers in a way he never has in the company of a woman, especially one standing in his apartment. Confused, she leaves, and he says he'll call her, but he knows he won't really.

He grabs a beer from the fridge and drinks it while he watches _The Sound of Music_.

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"_Do you ever think about soul mates?"_

If asked the same question today, the answer would be yes.

He does think about soul mates.

Quite often.

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Day after day, bad guy after bad guy, he goes to work and does his job.

Gibbs retires. He takes over.

A thousand times, both before and after becoming team leader, he thinks about quitting, about becoming a cop again or maybe joining another government agency, because sometimes he can't stand to look at her desk.

He feeds himself all kinds of excuses, but in the back of his mind, he knows the reason he stays is that he also can't stand _not_ to look at it.

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One day he goes to her headstone on a whim. He walks briskly through the cemetery until he finds it; the flowers he left for her birthday a week ago are weathered, but there. Without worrying about his expensive suit or the arthritis in his knee, he sits down on the grass and begins to talk, trying hard to keep his voice steady.

"I was just at the grocery store, and I saw this little girl who looked… exactly like you," he says, rubbing his temples. "She seriously could have been the six year old version of you. We made eye contact and I… I kind of jumped, and her eyes got all wide, like 'what the hell is wrong with that old guy?'" He laughs a little. "Exactly the kind of look you would've given me."

There is no sound but that of the cold wind whistling in his ears, and he slowly gets to his feet. Once he is standing, he stares down at the headstone, the one whose inscription he chose himself, and sighs, "I miss you."

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It has been a long time since he lost his will to live life to the fullest; he goes to the assisted living center with little resistance. The building is big, the food is good, and there's a golf course out back. In the evenings he plays cards with the two men across the hall from him. It's not a bad way to live.

Whenever nurses come to check on him, their gazes linger on the photos on the wall: the ones of a bikini-clad woman in her twenties and one of the same woman on a Paris street. They never comment, but it's clear that they wonder who she is.

He doesn't offer up any information, and he's kind of glad nobody asks- he has a gut feeling that she is somewhere smirking, because of course he _still_ has those pictures.

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As his health declines, all he can think about is how much he wishes they'd gotten a chance to grow old together.

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"I love you."

This scene has replayed itself in his dreams before. He braces himself for what happens next, for the moment in which her eyes slide shut, but he is shocked to find that they don't. Instead she lifts her head from his chest and looks at him, eyes wide and sparkling. One hand rests against the side of his neck, and she says, "I love you too."

That's when he realizes that this is not a dream; her words are real, the warmth of her hand is real. They are together and they are real.

Just before their lips meet, she murmurs, "I heard you."

**I'm very interested in what you think of this story, because it's a different style than I usually write in, so I'd love it if you reviewed :) Thank you for reading!**


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